


All the Lonely People

by Lady In A Tux (CollateralDamage666)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Bat!John, Eventual Human!John, Experimentation, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Lonely Sherlock, M/M, Sherlock AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 12:37:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollateralDamage666/pseuds/Lady%20In%20A%20Tux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been harassed for years to get a familiar, so when he finally does crack and get one, he chooses the most obscure animal he can get his hands on.  He never expected the bat to make such a huge impact on his life, but now that he has John, he's starting to realize just how quiet his life is.  He would do anything to have a friend, but of course he's not going to admit that to anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Lonely People

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Bat!John](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/18220) by Johnnybooboo. 



> I'm not even sorry.

Outside, the sky was dark, a lightning storm approaching fast.  Wind rattled the windows, but the man inside paid the other noises no mind, used to London whether and with more important things on his mind at the moment.  Sherlock leafed through his notes, which were hardly legible thanks to his hurried, looped handwriting.  Finding the page he was looking for, he let out a squeak of excitement.  He was close, so close to achieving his goal.  He just needed one more thing to– a knock on the door roughly pulled him from his thoughts and turned to stare at it as though it had brought him personal offense.

“What is it Mrs. Hudson?  I’m busy.”

The woman in question opened the door timidly, peering into almost pitch blank room except for the one light on over the table.  With a wave of his hand, a few more flickered on, mostly for Mrs. Hudson

“There’s a man here to see you with a parcel.  He said it was important.”

“In this weather?”  However, he pushed past her, moving down the stairs.  A man stood in the foyer, holding a package in his arms.

“Mr. Holmes?”  He looked up at the approaching footsteps and Sherlock stopped in front of him, inspecting the package he was holding.  It was relatively small, had holes in it– he let a grin stretch his face as revelation set it.  He signed for the package quickly, gave the man a tip, which consisted of all the bills in his pocket, and carefully climbed back up the stairs, package cradled carefully in his arms.  Mrs. Hudson was still in his room, poking about the kitchen and trying to find a mug of his that wasn’t currently being used for an experiment.  She always felt the need to make him some tea when she was around.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, you can go now.”  He set the box down softly.  She walked over to peer at it.

“What is it, dear?  Don’t tell me you’ve gotten something dangerous.  You’ll be paying for all the damage, you know.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, thank you.”

“Just never know what your type is going to do.  And you’re the strangest of the bunch,” she gave him a kind squeeze on his arm and moved to leave.

It wasn’t until the old woman left that he got around to carefully opening the package, whispering a spell to make it take itself apart.  When the top was open, he peered into the inky darkness, looking for the moving animal he was waiting for.  He snapped his fingers and all the lights in the room snapped off, leaving him in almost complete darkness except the light that shined in through the windows from the street lamps.  Lightning split the sky and for a second, he could make out a small figure huddled in the corner of the box.  Then thunder cracked, like a percussion of drums being shoved off a cliff and the creature fluttered alive, high pitched squeaks coming from its small body as it flew out of the box, nearly colliding with Sherlock, who ducked just in time.

It flew around the room, squeaking and crying until it seemed to settle down, landing on a lampshade, clinging to it upside down with its feet.  Man and creature stared at each other across the room.  The tiny bat was barely visible in the dark corner it was hiding in, only a small blip hanging off the bottom of the light.  Lightning flashed again and Sherlock moved quickly, knowing the thunder was not far behind it.  It crashed though the house again and the bat erupted into motion, squeaking in what seemed to be fear.  Sherlock muttered a few words, trying to use a spell to calm the bat, it seemed to be working, its flight becoming less frantic, and it turned, soaring toward Sherlock.  It landed on his shirt, clinging to the material.  It shuffled up, closer to his neck and nuzzled up next to him.  The next thunder clap made it press closer, but it didn’t try to fly away again.

Sherlock brought a hand up to pet it with one finger, continuing to chant magic words in hopes the bond between them would start to form.  He could sense it now, just a tiny sliver, as thin as a spider’s web between them, but it was something.  Most people thought it strange that he had refused to have a familiar, but now that he was in his early thirties, even more pressure was put on him to find one.  Especially from his older brother, demanding that he at least do this to fit in a bit more since he already stuck out like a sore thumb.  Sherlock had asked him what the point was, then, and after a few more threats from Mycroft, he had gone out and looked for an animal that was worthy of being his familiar.  It had to be something unique, of course.  Being ordinary was boring.

So when most people went for cats, dogs, sometimes lizards and even hamsters, Sherlock ordered a bat to be delivered to him from across the world.  He just couldn’t wait to see his brother’s face when the bat dive-bombed him, as Sherlock was sure to teach him to do so.  He hadn’t expected it to be delivered so soon, so he had nothing set up for it in ways of sleeping and food.  Sherlock supposed he would just have to make do with what he had for the moment.  He gently eased the small creature off his shoulder, though it tried to hold on, feet digging into his shirt and little claws scrambling for purchase in Sherlock’s curly hair.  He tugged the creature loose and tried to set it down on the counter, but it clung stubbornly to his pointer finger, wrapping its limbs around it.

Sherlock sighed and let it hang from the finger, moving through his flat to his bedroom.  More thunder made the bat cling on tighter, but it was done flying now and the storm was moving farther away, the explosion of thunder no longer rattling the very foundation of the house.  He coaxed it off his finger and got it to fly down to his bed, crawling over his pillow to nestle down in the middle.  Once it seemed settled, Sherlock left it, closing the door behind him to make the room as dark as possible.  The room upstairs had turned into his hording room, for lack of a more eloquent way of putting it.  Mrs. Hudson had called it that once and the name had unfortunately stuck.

If he remembered correctly, and Mrs. Hudson hadn’t come up here to throw anything away while Sherlock was out, then he should have an old birdcage near the back of the room, piled up high.  He pushed the door open and snapped his fingers to turn on the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.  The lighting was poor even then, so he held his hand up to his face, whispered a few words and instantly a smale flame flickered to life in his palm.  He walked with his hand out in front of him, looking over the object.  He spotted it finally and had to levitate a few objects out of the way before he was able to pull it down to him.  It needed a bit of cleaning, but once that was done, it would be a suitable temporary cage until the one he had ordered would arrive.

He dragged it downstairs, plopped it down on the sink and waved his hand, making the cleaning materials get to work as he went to go check back up on the bat.  There was a loud clatter from his room and he quickly opened the door peering in through the dim light.  The bat was in a frenzy, flying around, trying to find a way out of the room and in its panic, it had knocked a book off his nightstand.  As soon as the light poured into the room, it flew toward the source and Sherlock could swear he heard a small squeak from it as it changed its course to come back to clinging to the front of Sherlock’s expensive shirt.  Sherlock let out a sigh when it seemed like the bat wasn’t going to move and backed out of his room with it still attached to his chest.  This time it willingly let go of him to stay on the counter, though it made a squeak to let him know it wasn’t exactly happy about it.

He stoked a finger down its back and it curled up into the touch.  From the size, it was most likely a male of its species, but he wouldn’t be sure until he checked.  He held out a finger and it climbed on immediately.  Male.  He put it back down and it let out a series of shrieks at him at the sudden abandonment.  He opened the fridge and pulled out a small cherry tomato, rolling it in the direction of the bat and instantly all was forgiven as it scrambled forward to eat it.  He would have to name it.  It was improper for a someone with magical abilities as himself to get a familiar and then just neglect to give it a proper name.  He considered for a moment naming it something obscure, like his own name, but dismissed it.  No need to give the bat such an exquisite name.  One easier on the tongue would be better for the small creature.

Bob.  Frank.  No, those were typical, boring names that screamed American.  Mike.  Greg.  He already knew people with those names.  Adam, Sam, Jacob, Noah, Kevin, John, Chris, Evan, Jason, David, Jack, Matt- wait.  Be made his mind backtrack through the list, rewinding to the one he was stuck on.  John.  He tried it out loud, testing it on his tongue.  He flowed out quickly, easily.  One syllable, no trouble.  It would be easy to call out to get the bat’s attention when he needed it.  He bent over, folding his arms on the counter, rested his chin on them, and watched the bat, John, bite hungrily into the tomato.  Was it customary to give familiars last names?  He wasn’t quite sure.  He would do it anyway.  It would at least make John different from other familiars in some other way besides being a bat.

He pondered a bit, watching John’s small tongue dart out to lap up the seeds inside.  Smith was too familiar.  Everyone and their dog had that name it seemed.  You think they would have at least tried to spice it up a bit after they realized that John Smiths were taking over the world.  He quite liked names starting with Ws.  William was out, another over common surname.  Watson was another- he stopped.  John Watson.  He couldn’t explain why, but he liked the sound of that name.  If worse came to worse, he could give the bat a completely unfamiliar middle name if his brother asked.  John Watson.  John.  Watson.  He smiled and reached out a finger to poke the bat in the side.  It squeaked in protest at the disturbance, but continued to eat anyway.

“John.  John Watson.  That’s your name.  Understand?”  He poked it again and got no reaction out of the creature this time.  Of course it couldn't understand, not yet.  He still had a lot to train the bat, from learning his name, basic commands, and, of course, attacking Mycroft when the man was unwanted.  Which was always.  A projected image of Mycroft would be good enough for practice.  He’d have to project some for Donovan and Anderson, as well, for when he went to crime scenes and they got on his nerves just for existing.  He would let John finish his meal first, though.  He picked up the cage and walked to his bedroom to set up John’s own little area until the materials for his actual cage arrived.

* * *

Sherlock tumbled out of his bedroom, tired and drowsy, almost tripping over a box on his way out to turn the stove on to make his morning cup of tea.  He had collapsed on his bed the night before, exhausted after days of no sleep, and his clothes were rumbled from sleeping in them and stained from his experiments from the previous day.  He yawned and scratched the back of his head.  The kettle began to shrill just has he heard footsteps coming up the stairs.  He sighed when he recognized the footfalls.  Mycroft.  He never actually bothered calling in advance to let Sherlock know he was coming.  He just showed up and usually for no reason other than to make sure his “dear little brother” wasn’t using drugs again.  He hadn’t taken drugs in almost a year now and Sherlock figured Mycroft could stop being such a prat all the time, but it seemed to he hardcoded into his DNA and Sherlock couldn’t recode him.  He wished his brother was a robot.  It would explain a few things and help him in the long run.

Mycroft didn’t even bother knocking, just threw open the door and walked into the flat, “I read you’ve been making strange purchases lately.  I came to make sure you’re not doing anything that will destroy this flat.  Or worse.  I’d rather not have to explain how half of my brother’s neighbor hood got sent into an alternate dimension or some other impossible thing that only you could manage.”

“Was that a compliment, Mycroft?”

“Hardly.  Just letting you know that if it comes to that, I will have to take precautionary measures, which may mean cutting your flow of cash.”

Sherlock frowned at that prospect, angrily making his tea.  He didn’t have the common courtesy to pour more tea for his brother, but he was sure that even a well behaved person wouldn’t want to put effort to making another cuppa for his brother.

“So what use have you been having for these strange purchases?  I read you bought a large amount of… figs and tomatoes?  Please tell me you haven’t found some way to combine them that makes a grenade of sorts.”  He tapped his umbrella against the floor, placing it in front of him and leaning forward.

“Careful there, those cakes in your gut could snap your precious umbrella in half.”  Sherlock smirked over the lip of his cup and his brother sent a glare his way, but stayed silent, still expecting a serious answer.  Sherlock wasn’t one for serious, however.  He turned toward his open bedroom door, “John.  Come out and meet Mycroft.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mycroft’s eyes widen in shock before squinted in suspicion, “I was not aware you were in a sexual relationship, brother.  And with a man, no less.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Of course there isn’t.  I just didn’t know you had it in you.”

Sherlock smiled and resumed drinking his tea, waiting for John to make his appearance.  Luckily, since he had collapsed last night, exhaustion overtaking him, he hadn’t had time to put John away in his cage.  He had stirred awake in the middle of the night and had blinked blearily at the fuzzy lump next to his head on the pillow.  John had decided to try to mimic him, flying down to sleep on his side next to Sherlock.  He had fallen asleep again after that and had woken up in the morning glad he had not rolled over and squished John in his sleep.  They had been spending the past few weeks practicing and John was starting to really understand the commands Sherlock gave the bat and now it was time to put the little bat to the test.

Just when Sherlock was about to go check on John, there was a flutter and a black blur streaked out of the bedroom, moving fast toward Mycroft, who took a step back in shock.  John swerved upwards, twisted, and immediately dive bombed down toward Mycroft’s head.  The elder man ducked out of the way, bringing his umbrella up to swat John out of the air, but the bat was too fast, already changing directions and heading over to his master, who he clung tightly to once landing on his chest.  Sherlock let out a deep chuckle when he looked back over at Mycroft to find his older brother disgruntled and completely missing his air of importance and superiority.  Sherlock decided he liked Mycroft looking like this.  He’d have to make sure he did more often.

Mycroft suddenly seemed to remember where he was, straightening up and smoothing down his clothes, trying to look normal again.  Sherlock, on the other hand, was permanently saving the expression he had previously had on his head and making a few copies just in case something happened to it.  John by now had found his way up to his usual spot, pressed up against Sherlock’s neck.  Sherlock gulped down most of the rest of his tea and held up his cup, tilting it so the liquid pooled up, almost dripping out of the cup, and kept it steady in front of his shoulder.  John leaned forward, tongue darting out to lap up the last of the tea as Sherlock slowly tilted it back down, smirking as the bat scrambled forward to keep the tea in reach while Mycroft continued to stare at them, though he now look amused.

“I see you finally got a familiar.  I should have known you wouldn’t have gotten a regular animal.  John, though?  Seems a bit low key for you.”

“Just because mum and father named us ridiculous names doesn’t mean I have to carry out their legacy.”  Mycroft tilted his head in amusement and Sherlock realized what that had sounded like, quickly sputtering out, “I’m not saying he’s like a child to me.  He’s a familiar, nothing else.”

“It’s normal for someone living alone to want company, Sherlock.  No need to be ashamed of it.”

“He’s just my familiar, Mycroft.  Now what did you want?  You didn’t come all this way to check on my purchases, so hurry up and tell me or else I’m saying no.”

Mycroft moved forward, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket.  He pulled out a single photograph, which he pushed across the counter to Shelrock.  It was of a man, in his late twenties, getting out of a cab.  He was holding his sunglasses in his hand and looking off to something to the side, his suit flaring out behind him, tie flipped up over his shoulder.  In his other hand he held a briefcase, and there was the faint glint of light showing that his wrist was handcuffed to the handle.  Sherlock looked up at his brother after he absorbed every detail about the man in front of him.

“The briefcase contains top secret information and it has gone missing, I presume?”  Of course he already knew the answer, “Where’s the man?”

“Dead.  Found in an industrial district with his hand crudely cut off.  It was a rushed job, not a clean cut.  Detective Inspector Lestrade is currently at the scene of the crime.  You are to go inspect the body and find out who took the suitcase.”

“And what if I say no.”

“You don’t get a choice in the matter, Sherlock.  If you refuse to do as I say, I will not hesitate in taking steps to insure you do as I say.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, knowing Mycroft meant what he said, wondering if he should risk it anyway.  A shift of the bat near the side of his neck made him remember it wasn’t just him that would feel the consequences anymore.  Mycroft could be ruthless when he was angry.  He brought a finger up to give John a pet, knowing his brother’s sharp eyes would catch the movement and interpret it however he wanted to.

“Very well.  Where’s the body.”

Mycroft smirked and rattled of the address, which Sherlock immediately stored near the front of his brain.  His brother finally turned to leave, gathering up the photograph as he went, but stopped near the doorway.  Sherlock waited, fearing whatever Mycroft was going to say next.

“What species is it.”

“He.  John’s a he, obviously.”

“Fine, what species is he?”

“Sturnira lilium.”

Mycroft gave a curt nod and finally left.  The flat was unnaturally quiet after the man left, Sherlock’s movements across the squeaky floorboards seemed almost thunderous in the aftermath.  He grabbed his coat and shrugged it on, careful to let John move out of the way.  He wrapped his scarf loosely around his neck, feeling John cuddle up against the side of his neck, between him and the scarf.  He fit in neatly and seemed to like the darkness whenever they walked around town and took cabs.  No one ever knew he was there.  As if he knew what Sherlock was thinking, John let out a small squeak and Sherlock reached up to pet him once more.

“You did good, John.  Ready to go practice on the police now?  Make sure to aim for Anderson’s face if you can get close enough.”

**Author's Note:**

> Not betaed or britpicked.


End file.
